


Nocturne

by jackpip



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Musician!Phil, Musician!Phin, Phillip is an oboist, Phineas is a saxophonist, TGSFanFicFeb2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 15:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17624726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackpip/pseuds/jackpip
Summary: My attempt at participating in TGSFanFicFeb2019! Just a load of drabbles, all based on the same trope.I doubt there’ll be any, but any rating changes/trigger warnings will be posted at the top of each chapter!





	1. First Meeting

The snowflakes fall one by one, scarring Phineas’ shirt with spilt blood and littering his hair with their corpses. Maybe, he finally admits to himself, he should have brought a coat.

Perched atop his saxophone case, he double checks that his music bag is closed properly and checks his watch. Eight minutes before his bus. Closing his eyes and stretching back, he sticks his legs out as far as possible into the dark.

He yawns deeply, and the blood rushing through his ears deafens him to everything. Or, rather, everything except the scream that suddenly pierces the night.

“Fuck!” Phineas shoots up, head swivelling as he feels something collide with his ankles. Another man is at his feet, beginning to push himself up with a huff.

“I’m sorry,” he stands, offering a hand to the stranger. It’s quickly batted away as the man sits back on the ground, exhaling hard, “I didn’t mean to trip you up.”

“Why the hell were your legs out there anyway?! You were taking up half the pavement, and now my hands are bleeding, and I’m on the floor and, really, I ought to- wait,  _ shit, _ where’s-” the man cuts himself off, frantically searching around him. Turning, Phineas sees a small case lying five feet away; he retrieves it, examining it as he does so.

“You’re a clarinetist?” The other man all but snatches the case from him.

“An _oboist,_ actually.”

“Figures; they tend to be more obnoxious than the average musician.” Phineas stretches his hand out again, eyebrows quirked as he grins. The other man takes it and gives Phineas’ case a cursory glance.

“A saxophonist, I see,” the man finally meets his eyes, and Phineas swears they almost soften into a matching smile, “Phillip Carlyle.”

“P.T. Barnum,” he replies, still holding his hand, “the T is for Taylor.”

“And the P?”

“That’s a question for next time.” The stranger _—Phillip—_ laughs unexpectedly, and something about the way his head ducks down, almost  _ shy, _ makes Phineas’ heart stutter in his chest.

“Are you saying you plan on tripping me up some other time as well?” Phillip’s eyebrow is raised, eyes dancing with amusement, and Phineas decides all at once that  _ yes, _ he  _ needs _ to see this man again.

“Absolutely, yes,” he shoves his hands in his pockets, a rush of nerves overcoming him, “or, alternatively, I could buy you a coffee tomorrow?”

Phillip doesn’t reply, just scrutinises him as though deciding whether or not to damn him to Hell, and for a second Phineas thinks he’s done something terribly, terribly wrong. Before he can react, however, the other man nods.

“I think that would be acceptable.” The rush of blood to Phineas’ face has absolutely nothing to do with the cold, and  _ everything  _ to do with the way Phillip reaches up and pulls a piece of fluff from his hair, fingers soft and gentle as they brush against his forehead.

In the distance, the bus rattles around the corner, and Phineas tears himself away to pick up his case. Phillip begins to walk away.

“How do you expect me to take you for a drink if you don’t have my number?” The other man turns on his heel.

“How do you expect to give me your number without any paper?” Phineas smirks, pulling a pen from his pocket.

“Like this.” With a wink, he takes Phillip’s hand and scrawls a message across it before turning to stop the bus. “See you tomorrow, Mr Carlyle.”

 

——

 

It’s not until he gets home that Phillip reads the note on his hand. Beneath the other man’s number is a little stick figure playing the saxophone and a speech bubble.

When he reads it, he can’t help but smile and reach for his phone.

_ Here’s my number, so call me maybe? _

_ — Phineas :) _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m 1/28th of the way there and already having writer’s block :’) still, I adore the trope that they’re musicians hhhh


	2. Vertigo

“Are you sure you’re ok?” Phillip nods, but Phineas still looks about ready to carry Phillip home as he falters again. As much as he’d love to place the onus for his tripping on the wind that seems determined to knock them over and burst their eardrums, Phillip can’t really blame anything other than himself.

Last night, after he cleaned the cuts on his hands and knees, applying a Mr Bump plaster (the excuse that those were the only ones remaining would fade the second one looked inside is bathroom cabinet) to a particularly nasty one, he succumbed to the urge to text the number scrawled across his knuckles.

Phillip couldn’t help but feel awful for the beration the man had had to endure upon first meeting, and apologised at least five times in what he  _ hoped _ was a discreet, calm manner. Phineas, for his part, was absolutely lovely, and understood completely. He even apologised himself. Still, Phillip’s guilt gnawed on his insides and, more visibly, his nails; the least he could do, he thought, was get to know the other man a little better.

Or, at least, that was the excuse he gave himself for staying up until beyond three in the morning, pretending the giddiness that rose in his chest whenever his phone buzzed and Phineas’ name illuminated the screen was mere tiredness.

Now, though, he regrets his actions. Phineas walks alongside him, far too chipper for a man who can’t have got more than four hours of rest (Phillip  _ knows _ he should have gone back to sleep after a message woke him up at seven that morning asking what his favourite colour was, but it’s not his fault that Phineas might just be the most endearing man he’s ever met), while he stumbles against the force of the wind, ears ringing. The brilliant smile Phineas shoots in his direction is almost enough to make him forget the sudden ripples of nausea spreading through his stomach, paling his complexion slightly. 

Still, Phillip wraps his hand around the cornflowers in his pocket and smiles. It was a sweet touch, really, to pick him up from his apartment complex. He has to admit: the flowers, the bashful apology upon seeing the plaster on his hand that Phillip lost track of the second Phineas rubbed the back of his own neck and smiled sheepishly, the brushing of fingers against his, shy and barely-there and  _ hesitant, _ have altogether made for a rather pleasant morning.

“Here we are.” Phineas gestures to a building somewhat higher than those surrounding it. Phillip swallows hard. “Our coffee awaits.”

He walks ahead as Phillip glances apprehensively at the café. In his defence, he thinks, he would have mentioned this, had he known. After all, vertigo isn’t usually something relevant to getting coffee.

“Phillip? Are you coming?” Phineas holds the door for Phillip as he walks in. Tension is already piling behind his eyes and he closes them for just a second in an attempt to relieve it.

As soon as he puts a foot on the first step, though, the ripples roar into a tsunami; he leans against a wall, tipping his head back as nausea and dizziness rush over him.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, guiding him gently to the floor. The next thing Phillip knows, a water bottle is in his hand and Phineas is crouching next to him, eyebrows furrowed.

“What just happened?” Phillip groans a little and sips the water.

“Vertigo,” he manages, eyes still screwed shut. “Sorry.” He swallows again.

“You should have told me.”

“I didn’t think it was pertinent to going for a coffee.” Phillip opens an eye to look at the man next to him, guilt flooding his stomach at the sight of his concerned expression. “Besides, I’m ok now.”

Slowly, with Phineas’ hands on his elbow and back, Phillip stands up and moves to sit on the stairs. Phineas joins him, hesitant to let go of his elbow.

“Have you always had vertigo?” Phillip grimaces.

“I’ve never been entirely steady on my feet. The floor has just always seemed so much more enticing than anything tall.” Phillip looks up the stairs behind them, then leans his head ever-so-slightly on Phineas’ shoulder. He turns a little, shifting his arm to the left, and their fingertips weave together. Neither goes to move.

“Except you, that is.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeet yeet i’m Very unhappy w this tbh :((,, feel free to comment though


	3. “Are you sure?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes hello so!! It turns out my motivation is very sporadic and, as a result, I have managed to fill in prompt 6, having skipped 3-5. I might go back to them, I might not. Either way, prompt 6 is here! I’m not like. 100% convinced of the plot with no explanation, but it is what it is y’know? Feel free to leave any questions in the comments :))

Phillip wakes up to the sound of feline retching. Swearing silently, he opens his eyes just in time to see Amélie cough a hairball onto his chest. The smell of bile, green and  _ just _ on the wrong side of nauseating, slaps him into full consciousness.

“You,” he grumbles, “are the scourge of society.” He tries to lift her off. She digs her claws in, scratching him as she arches her back.

“Fine, then. Be like that.” Phillip stands up, reluctantly taking the hairball into his hands; sure enough, she jumps back onto the bed, tail pointing upwards as he turns away and ducks into the bathroom.

The shower is warm, inviting; Phillip, teeth gritted as the shampoo foam stings the scratches littering his skin, is grateful for such a small mercy. If the water was cold, he reckons he probably would have gone back to bed then and there, and not moved all day.

Eventually, he drags himself from the water into the relative blizzard of his living room, pulling a t-shirt over his head as the cold air hits him. Amélie is at his feet in an instant, silently begging him for food, and maybe there’s still time for her to find redemption.

Phillip prepares the cat’s food with one hand, the other scratching behind her ears affectionately as she paws at him, mewling. The feeling of nausea is still piqued behind his nose, a slight lethargy pulling the sides of his cheeks out of a smile. He’s  _ fine, _ he tells himself. Just a little off.

When Amélie is happily eating, the smell of fish filling his apartment, Phillip flicks the kettle on and reaches for his mug. His expression turns just a little fond at the ostinato of woodwind instruments covering it; he notes with smitten embarrassment that the oboe and the saxophone are next to each other.

Kettle boiled, he makes his coffee—black, as always—and pulls his phone from his pocket.

_ Please could you bring some milk over? _

Phineas replies straight away. Phillip sets his mug onto the coffee table.

_ Are you just trying to find an excuse to see me again? ;P _

_ How preposterous. _

Phineas really does see straight through him.

_ I’ll be there in 10  _

The warmth in Phillip’s chest takes the edge off his nausea, almost eradicating it completely. Shoving his phone away again before he can get too flustered at the mere thought of Phineas, he picks the mail up from its small heap just to the left of his door. Phillip flops onto the sofa, thumb and a forefinger coming up to rub his eyebrows as he sifts through the paper. Most of the deliveries hold no interest: junk mail, pizza vouchers, bills. He tosses them aside one by one, working his way through the pile.

A small, perfectly-formed letter at the bottom of the stack catches both his eye and the breath in his throat in one go, and he instantly discards the other detritus. The address is handwritten,  _ of course,  _ and Phillip can almost smell the disdain tainting the ink. The letters slant tauntingly, his own name weaponised against him in its stark fullness. In the corner, a crest is stamped; Phillip feels a rush of sickness, much greater than before, tear through his body at the sight of the red feathers all but bleeding from the envelope.

His hand are shaking, blood burning through his arteries. He can almost feel the scars on his back heat up as he tears into the envelope, stab wounds sliced open by paper cuts. The world goes loud then silent in an instant; a sforzando piano of phantom pain covers his ears as though he’s a child all over again, understanding words he  _ shouldn’t _ and feeling their meaning in sharp red.

He wishes he didn’t understand.

He wishes he were illiterate, had never learned to read words or music, expressions of awe and disgust. He wishes he were less dexterous, unable to inscribe minuscule markings onto manuscript paper or move his fingers quickly enough to paint the air with perfect glissandos between octaves. He wishes he were deaf, couldn’t hear the paper hitting the floor as it falls from his open hands.

The floor he can’t afford to replace anymore.

It’s entirely his fault, Phillip supposes, unlocking his phone without even fully realising until he’s sent a message.

_ Can you make it 5? _

His blood seems to have solidified, an internal wrecking ball bouncing off the walls of his chest, and he’s not sure when he started crying. Amélie looks up from her bowl, and he chokes.

_ Please? _

Phillip rubs at his eyes, desperately trying to dispel the water gathering there. Even from their place on the floor, even with the tears distorting his vision, the words scream at him, a declaration of his aberration from absent parents.

_ Failed.  _ Maybe he has. He hasn’t even practised yet today. His oboe glints the sun from the corner in an attempt to blind him, gloating. Despite himself, he picks up a dirty sock from the table and hurls it in the instrument’s general direction.

_ Unworthy. Disappointment.  _ Phillip sits perfectly still, back straighter than it has been in  _ years.  _ Since he left home, in fact. He knows they’re right. He should have given up after the first split reed, followed his father into unoriginal, pre-moulded success. He should never have strayed from the path laid out for him, should never have written his own; the steps between chords are beginning to look more like leaps by the second.

He should never have been so absorbed in his own head that he tripped over legs in the dark, should never have said a word when he fell, should never have fallen  _ further _ when he looked into those eyes.

He should never have met Phineas, because now he’s—

_ Disowned. _

He bites his knuckles, hardly aware of the strength with which he pulls at the skin. Breathing becoming erratic, Phillip shoots up, pacing around the room in some vague attempt to shake the panic, the loss, the  _ grief _ smothering his senses. Amélie comes towards him, weaving between his feet, and he stills again. Energy drains from his body with a staccato beat and Phillip sits on the floor, legs drawn near his head as he continues to gnaw at his fingers. He exhales deeply.

He gives up.

The click of the door is the only thing that alerts Phillip to Phineas’ arrival. The other man is uncharacteristically silent, crouching down to scratch Amélie behind the ears as he walks over to him. He sits next to him, crossed legs just brushing Phillip’s ankles, and places his hands in his lap.

“What’s wrong, Flip?” Phillip turns to face him, mouth open as if ready to speak, but any semblance of an explanation is captured, bound up and silenced inside his stomach. Instead, he shakes his head, tears filling his vision again quicker than he can blink them away.

Phineas rests a hand on the back of his head and Phillip closes his eyes. Everything inside him cries out not to move; still, he can’t help but move his head back into Phineas’ hand.

“Come here, darling.” The hushed tone forces his eyes open again as he shuffles closer, tentative. The other man wraps an arm round his shoulders, ensnaring him in a trap of kindness.

Phillip knows all too well how this plays out. After all, he grew up in a perpetual state of faux-entrapment, has too many scars criss-crossing his spine to prove it. The marks,  _ lessons, _ are faded, serving to remind him at his happiest of what he should have been; at his worst, they destroy him. Every touch is agony, fingertips burning into his skin as the past diffuses into the present.

Why, then, he leans into the quagmire of comfort winding itself around his chest—his  _ heart— _ escapes him.

Maybe, he thinks, he should just succumb to Phineas’ ministrations; the soothing tenderness brushing through his hair fills him with an overwhelming desire to curl up and accept, for once, everything being offered to him. A thumb brushes the corner of his eye, gently spreading the tears it catches over his cheeks until the sheen of salt is so thin they feel dry again.

“Look at me.” The silence is broken so suddenly that his head shoots up, almost headbutting the other man. He gulps. The flash of fear in his eyes dissipates, though, as soon as a small, crooked smile appears on Phineas’ lips. “I don’t know why exactly you’re upset.” Phillip flinches, almost imperceptibly, glancing towards the letter and praying Phineas doesn’t notice. He does, of course, and kicks it further away.

“But, I promise you’ll always be safe with me.  _ Always.” _ The emphasis of his whisper makes Phillip uneasy, leaden guilt settling in his stomach.

“I’m sorry.” He looks down, shame condensing in his eyelashes.

“Don’t be.” Phineas nudges his head up, noses brushing together. “I’ve got you.”

“Are you sure?” His voice is hoarser than expected. “I understand if you want to go, after all…  _ this.” _ He gestures to himself, tone so self-deprecating Phineas wants to incinerate the letter, raze its author to the ground. The load of the other man’s final word hangs between them, its weight drawing them closer still, and Phineas’ smile evolves into something more tender, open. Phillip might even call it vulnerable.

“Absolutely, undoubtedly, assuredly.” He kisses him once, soft and warm and chaste and  _ perfect. _ Slowly, Phillip’s hand comes up, unfurling and weaving itself between the curls at the base of Phineas’ neck. If he were to open his eyes, he would see the blush beginning to tint the other man’s cheeks, faint dustings of freckles starting to appear as he smiles into his mouth. Instead, they remain closed, even as Phineas gently pulls away and rests their foreheads together.

“Yes.” He presses one more kiss, this time to his nose, and slips his hand into Phillip’s, gently raising them both to his heart. “I promise, Phil. I’ve got you.”


End file.
